


Message In A Bottle

by Ulfrsmal



Series: March Musical Madness Masterpieces [59]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Admiring from Afar, Longing, M/M, March Musical Madness (The Last Kingdom), Polyamory, Yearning, rated T for references to slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 11:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30138555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: Finan admires both the Moon of a man he’s fallen in love with, and the living Sun that is the Lord he has also fallen in deep love with.
Relationships: Finan/Sihtric/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Series: March Musical Madness Masterpieces [59]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185899
Comments: 6
Kudos: 4





	Message In A Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> The title is [a song by The Police](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MbXWrmQW-OE). [Machine Head](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yu-Ulye5Axc) did a great cover of it, too.

The desperation he’d felt until then was receding. Finally. Finally, someone had heard his prayers. And not only that, but they’d sent him the most brilliant love he’d ever dared ask for. He stands there, donning well-polished armour, Mjöllnir around his neck, his beloved sword hanging off the belt around his hips. He is the perfect picture of a Lord, if there ever was one. Handsome. Commanding respect with only one look. The more they look at him, the more he scorches their roaming gazes. Like the Sun is too luminous when directly looked at.

But that was not all. Oh, no. He is not so lucky to get only the _one_ pain at his heart. He doesn’t know if this part has been spurned by the _Nornir_ that these Heathens so often refer to when it comes to Destiny’s mysterious unveiling. He supposes it might be. Oh, scratch that. It _must_ be. The God he almost doesn’t pray to anymore, not after everything he’s been through, not after having been abandoned at sea like he was, could never have planned something like this. Not when the priests who supposedly interpret His teachings are all so staunchly against this kind of love.

He’s never had many reservations about it himself, though. Some love men, some love women, some love both. He’d loved many a woman in Ireland, truth be told. Some will even be willing to, or persuaded into, giving good references about his prowess in bed. Not that such things matter anymore, of course. He is far away from Ireland now, stranded in England’s lands like it means nothing. It should mean something. In other time, it might even have.

But now… now he can see the Moon of a man who so well complements the living Sun that is their Lord. Dark hair accented by silver, one dark eye and one blue eye, dark armour, and a brilliant blade. A study in contrasts, this one. All silver, but also all black. His body contours as he moves, the strut manifesting in his shoulders first and in his hips second. He’s slender all over, too. Younger than him, younger than their Lord. Handsome. But his beauty is completely different from that of most Heathens, and from that of all Saxons. Subdued, perhaps. Predatory in that understated way of those who know they’ve got nothing to prove to anyone.

He wishes he had that same easy confidence, too. In other, past, times, he had it. He knows he did. Everybody around him had been able to tell he did. But now…

The Moon looks at him and instantly pauses in his step. He wonders if he’s _really_ giving off such a bad image of an Irishman to make his Moon falter like this. He tries to smile, although the gesture is now foreign to him. He never smiled aboard. He only started doing that more when his Sun started to lean on him, handfeeding him gruel, staying by his side at all times. The smile he earns now for his troubles shines like radiant moonlight. How fitting, too, because it came from this man, this boy, almost, who is made of silver and black. Like a dark night with a full moon at its zenith.

Suddenly there are arms around him. He tries to shake free, although he still feels weakened and roughened and sick all over. He fails, or so he thinks; but the other moves away, dancing around him in a nimble circle. Just like the ones he himself used to dance around his opponents. It will take him some more time until he can do that again. Right now, he’s lucky if he can hold a sword for more than five minutes at a time. His Sun has suffered just as much; and yet here he is, agile and brilliant and determined. Rage surges inside him, although not at his Sun, not at his Moon. It’s only rage at himself for not being able to match them yet. Rage at the slavers who dared hurt him, who dared hurt his Sun, who dared deprive his Moon of their Sun.

There is just too much rage in him. There always has been. But now it has grown. Almost too loud to contain. He needs a fight, and he needs it now. His Sun and his Moon look at him like they understand his needs from giving him a single good look. His head swims, but not in hateful water, just in pleasant warmth. The warmth of his Sun, and also the one that his Moon emits and reflects. They match really well. There shouldn’t be any space left for him there. Logically he knows that the couple is complete. He does not dare wish for more. He knows he would not be able to take that heartbreak in stride, like he’d once been able to. It would destroy him even more. And he would have to remain, because he has internally sworn himself to his Sun and to his Moon already.

Foolish. He’s always been foolish. The Irish never stopped reminding him. His Sun and his Moon have never called him that, though. They have always welcomed him. And he does not deserve their kindness. Not when he is still too weakened, too roughened, too sick all over, than to reciprocate like they both deserve to be.

His Sun leans in from one side, keeping the sword away from his body. His Moon crowds into his opposite side too, his own weapon kept pointed gently behind him. They take their time, share a secret look which he pretends to not see. It is already much too embarrassing to have them both move closer, as if they don’t trust him to stay upright. A shiver runs down his spine when his Sun kisses his cheek with no preamble. No warning has come, just the warmth of his Sun giving him an open-mouthed kiss that he does not deserve. He trembles, he reels, he thinks he can die half-happy.

But then his Moon leans in too, to kiss his other cheek, once, chaste, dry; yet not unpleasant. His Moon could _never_ be unpleasant. Not even if he tried to be so. He sighs when his Moon’s lips linger, caressing his Sun-kissed skin. The pleasant warmth spreads further within him.

And, in this blessed instant, he knows. He knows that his desperate message to God, to the Gods even, has been well-received.

**Author's Note:**

> Mjöllnir is the name of Thor's Hammer.
> 
> The Nornir (name in Old Norse) are the Norns in English. They rule the destiny of Gods and Men, spinning the thread of Fate and thus determining the fates of all Gods and Humans.


End file.
